Cigarettes
by Nagiru
Summary: Seishiro took over Subaru's life like a disease, one day at a time, and way too soon for anyone's liking. Most of the times, it felt just as mortal, as well.


**CIGARETTES**

 **Author's notes:** As this is canonical, and, more than that, a canonical SeiSuba, you should be warned that it deals with an Unhealthy Relationship. It also deals with mentions of Character Death (Hokuto). Seishiro is not a nice person, and Subaru was majorly changed by him, so, yeah.

 **DISCLAIMER:** Hey. Let's make a copy-and-paste thing here. Okay, so, CLAMP and its works are not mine. They belong to, uh, CLAMP. WISH, Holic, Tokyo Babylon, X, Tsubasa, RG Veda, Kobato, Cardcaptor Sakura, Drug & Drop, Chobits, and every other story I have not mentioned here but that I might use are not mine, but CLAMP's. Also, the characters are also CLAMP's property. What I do own is this series of drabbles I've been writing from different CLAMP works, that are not really related. I have no monetary interest with any of this, of course, but, now, if you'd like to leave me comments, I'd be incredibly happy… (Sorry, sorry. Thought it was a good opening)

 **. . .**

The habit was born against my will — just like everything always is, when it's involved with you. By force, even. It came with all the velocity of a car wreck and the strength of a wild _inugami_.

Of course it was; why would it be any different?

I never intended to love you, after all, yet here I am. A missing body, blood in my hands, and an empty, hurting heart. And all that I _keep thinking about_ , as ridiculous and disgusting as it sounds, is you; that glass eye that stares at nothing, that dark eye that stares me down, and both so equally _cold_. Those hurtful, cruel hands wrapping themselves around my arm, broking my bones, going through a _wrong, wrong, wrong, red on white,_ chest _(when it was supposed to be me)_. That smooth voice filled with cold, mean words — those sweet, fake promises whispered at my ear, through a dream, taunting me from a place that doesn't exist. I can only think about your warmth; human, monstrous, _not mine_.

I never intended to love you.

I love you anyhow.

And, just like the naïve, weak _child_ you told me I was, I clamped down, trembling before reality, dying inside before the emptiness where my other half, my _better_ half, should be. And, just like a kicked, tossed away puppy, I held down to the only chance I got, the only hope I could still see, and kept to myself the few, precious memories I could have. I held, claws and fangs, to the few things I could still reach: stupid, cruel, ridiculous, _mortal_ habits. I stopped caring for myself, because there was no one here to care about me. I stopped taking care, because there was no one to weep for me. I stopped eating, because there was no one to feed me. I kept choosing the same clothes, again and again, because there was no one to dress me up, no one to dress _for_. I stopped smiling, because _there was no reason to be happy_.

I started smoking, because the smell felt right, because the smell was _yours_ , and by this time I was accepting anything that could bond me to you, however small it were.

And, just like all the times I dove head first into ideas without thinking them through first, this one didn't end well. I choked, again and again, through the smoke that came down my throat; I burnt myself, flames touching my fingers, the fire too hot against sensitive skin that was never exposed before. I dropped ashes on myself, and I dropped whole packs of cigarettes in the water moments after buying them, needing to buy new ones. I felt like I was gonna die, and I felt relief at the idea — and then I felt despair, at the idea of never seeing you again.

I never stopped smoking, however, not even when despair boiled under my skin and made me feel like it was all for nothing. I couldn't stop, because this was a bond to you, because in these short moments where I smoke, I could close my eyes and pretend you were here, by my side; because in these short moments, there was enough warmth in the air for me to pretend it was another human being close to me.

And I never stopped smoking, in the end, for a stupid hope that, when we next met, you would give me enough attention to at last free me from the cherry tree. Or to sacrifice me, for once and for all.

I smoke because, at the end of the day, it made no difference for me if I were alive or dead, as long as I were with you, Seishiro-san.


End file.
